by Katy Moran
‘You damned little bastard,’ Abbotsdale hissed, thrusting a scribbled IOU at him. ‘I suppose you’ll need all the fortune you can scrounge once sainted Lord Lamorna is hanged for treason. That’s what we did to our last crop of traitors, remember? And he’s really no better than a Jacobite, is he? The only difference being he’s Cornish, not Scots. What’s he playing at, setting all the south-west up against the government when we’re still at war with France?’
‘What?’ Kitto spoke without moving, allowing the IOU to flutter to the marble floor between them. ‘What did you say, Abbotsdale?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, pay no heed,’ George said. ‘Honestly, Helford, what’s the good in letting yourself get riled up by it? Causing a scandal here won’t help Lamorna, although I’m certain it’ll turn out he’s been unfairly smeared by Castlereagh.’
Abbotsdale smirked. ‘I think we all know it’s a little more than that, don’t we?’
He got no further. Lent strength by fury, Kitto felled him with a savage blow to the jaw and silence crashed over the thinning crowd in the ballroom like a vast, cold wave. Abbotsdale slumped against the gilded door-panels, spitting out a spray of blood and what looked very much like a tooth on to Countess Orlova’s cerulean-blue Rajasthani carpet. In a blind, uncomprehending rage, Kitto snatched the older man’s jacket, hauling him to his feet.
‘Say it again!’ he said, quietly, into the booming, appalling moment of silence. ‘Say it again, Abbotsdale.’ And without waiting for a reply, Kitto hit him once more, in Countess Tatyana Orlova’s ballroom, the insult only sharper because he himself had challenged his brother on exactly the same terms.
22
Many hours later, Kitto woke face down, cold stone beneath him. Without moving, he watched light shaft in through a barred, narrow window. Not just a stone floor, but bare stone walls, too. He was locked in and panic shuddered through him: he couldn’t breathe. In moments, his eyes grew used to the gloom in his cell, and he saw a pair of shining black leather hessians inches from his face, which was pressed against the filthy stone floor. He sat up, naked without a weapon; beyond the boots, he could see very little.
‘Helford, you bloody young fool. What were you thinking? If it’s not bad enough to brawl at a godforsaken ball, you could at least have managed not to continue it out in the street just as the damned politsiya were passing.’
Kitto got to his feet, determined not to betray his heart-stopping and entirely humiliating fear of confined spaces, glad that it was so dark George likely could not see how much he was shaking.
George sighed. ‘God knows I can’t even count the number of times I’ve heartily wished myself at the club the day your brother called on me when I was last in London, you know. But I wasn’t, and I promised him I’d keep an eye out for you, so come on. Let’s get you out of this place. Christ, so revolting!’
Without a word, knowing there was absolutely nothing he could say to excuse himself, Kitto followed his rescuer along a stinking passageway; the British diplomat’s son an incongruous presence in the squalor of the guard-cells, clad in full evening dress and neat as a pin from his black silk pantaloons to the exquisitely cut jacket of superfine. It was odd, though, when one really thought about it: Crow’s friends had all died at Waterloo, or in the bloody battles leading up to it. George Cathcart was one of the few of Crow’s contemporaries to have survived the Peninsular Wars and Waterloo itself, and yet he never spoke of him. How little faith must Crow have in him, Kitto, to ask George to be his nursemaid in Petersburg, when George had never even been his particular friend?
Outside in the frigid northern night, George had kept the droshky waiting, and the bearded coachman in his voluminous thick blue caftan with the wide Circassian belt and silver buttons that glinted in the moonlight. Kitto got into the open carriage, aching all over and acutely aware of the prison-cell reek of urine-scented stale water and unwashed bodies that clung about him still. Scarcely waiting for George to sit down, the coachman called to the horses and the droshky sprang forward; even now, Kitto marvelled at how the driver used no whip but controlled his horses by voice alone, calling out into the chilly night. George looked at Kitto once, but just shook his head, crossed his booted legs, and addressed his attention to the torchlit streets with an expression of impeccably bred veiled disapproval. Kitto sat in excruciating silence until they reached the aspen-lined boulevard of the English Embankment in all its smoky, fish-scale-spangled chaos, and the Petersburg scents of scorched chestnuts and rotting fish and ancient mud and horseshit, and where the large, elegant townhouses were painted in sugared-almond shades of pastel, like so many iced cakes.
Kitto let out a long breath before he could finally bring himself to speak. ‘I really wouldn’t presume to put myself in your father’s presence.’
George gave him a crushing look. ‘Oh, for the Lord’s sake. An officer of the Coldstream brawling with a man at a ball? Abbotsdale is a heel of the first order, but there are limits. The pair of you are only bloody lucky Weston and I managed to separate you before either of you tried to call the other out – not that you could call Abbotsdale out, even if you wanted to, given that you’re not even close to twenty-one. I was due at Princess Vachekshina’s soirée an hour ago, and my father has cancelled his engagements to manage this mess. Save whatever Banbury tale you’ve concocted for him, I beg you. Dear God, Lamorna was right when he told me that you were born to be hanged.’
Without another word, George turned, striding back to the carriage, and left Kitto to negotiate his way through the crowd, thick and vociferous even at this hour, and as ever pungent with the mingled scents of stale human sweat, smoke, old fish and the reek of church incense that clung to the hair of the faithful. He edged his way through a gathering group of fiercely debating Chinese merchants with their long queues, and was escorted alone by a pair of liveried footmen up the wide, marble steps of the embassy. Pale corridors with scarlet carpets and embossed ceilings passed in a blur of ancestral Cathcart portraits, the footmen both preserved expressions of Russian disapproval, and by the time Kitto found himself waiting outside a handsome pair of mahogany double doors, waxed to such a gleaming shine that he could see his own hollow-eyed, pallid face staring back, he was so light-headed that he had to fight the urge to simply lie down on the rug. This was worse than anything. He swallowed hard, listening to the footman knock and announce him to Lord Cathcart.
The British Ambassador to Russia was sitting behind his desk in a large apartment with green silk wall-coverings lit up by branches of tall white candles. A hundred flames shivered in the sudden breeze as Lord Cathcart’s footman closed the double doors behind him. The balding, silver-haired diplomat took what felt like hours to look up from a sheaf of candlelit documents, and when he did at last, he only sighed, but did not invite Kitto to sit in one of the old-fashioned mahogany chairs drawn up to the desk. You climbed the siege ladders at Novgorod, Kitto reminded himself, recalling the whine of musket-ball after musket-ball passing him as he climbed hand over hand, and all the while knowing that if that whining hiss of iron through air ever grew quiet, it was because he himself had been hit.
‘A fine mess, Helford,’ Lord Cathcart said, leaning back in his chair to look Kitto up and down.
‘If you’ll let me go back to quarters and get my pistol, sir, then I can end it with little more inconvenience to you.’ Kitto returned the diplomat’s steady gaze. ‘I know I’ve disgraced my regiment, but I also lost twenty thousand roubles to Prince Volkonsky that I’ve no hope of repaying. I can’t possibly trouble my brother—’ He broke off, quite unable to discuss Crow’s ignominious situation with Lord Cathcart. ‘I’m sure that you won’t try and stop me taking the only honourable way out.’
Lord Cathcart laid down his pen, the top of his balding head gleamed in the candlelight, but he was no less intimidating for it. ‘My dear boy,’ he said, with awful, gentle patience. ‘How old are you, precisely?’
‘I’ll be seventeen soon, sir.’ This in
terview was not progressing at all as Kitto had expected; his throat felt thick and dry with thirst.
Lord Cathcart sighed. ‘Then I can only assume that you have no notion of the chief reason why Prince Volkonsky ought to have known a great deal better than to play faro with a child.’
Kitto flinched. So he was a killer when they wanted him to be, and a child when it suited them. ‘I don’t understand you, sir.’ Even to his own ears he sounded pompous.
‘You are not yet of age, boy. It’s Volkonsky who is at fault for playing against you, and I might add that well he knows it. It would be dishonourable of the prince to accept so much as a single kopek from you – which is just as well, since I’m quite sure that I myself would have no choice but to discharge your debt until your brother could relieve me of the responsibility, and I have Jane to bring out this year. As you’ll no doubt have noticed, she doesn’t do much to help herself.’ Lord Cathcart’s expression grew pained. ‘Gowns, silks, brocades, quantities of champagne – good Lord. Do you think, Christopher, that I would betray your father’s memory by allowing you to take your own life in lieu of a gambling debt? Honour is of all importance, but these things can be managed without recourse to opera-hall tragedy.’
Kitto stared at him, suppressing a burst of brandy-fuelled nausea. Even an apology would seem paltry, so he said nothing.
‘All the same,’ Lord Cathcart went on, ‘the debt is only one matter and in fact almost the very least of it, as you well know – you’ve embroiled yourself in a low-bred scandal, Helford, and that must be dealt with. It’s of utmost importance that the British presence in Petersburg is seen by the Russians as a help rather than a burden, and our young officers disgracing themselves in society ballrooms will not gild the lily. I take it that you are not aware that this affair is already talked of everywhere, and that your own family name has even appeared in the news-sheets in connection with it?’
‘I’d guessed so, sir,’ Kitto said: throwing one’s name into the ring for public discussion was the worst of crimes. It was a long time ago now, but he remembered only too well Papa’s unspoken, white-faced fury over the breakfast-table whenever Crow’s scandalous behaviour saw his name mentioned in The Times or the Morning Post. Papa himself had scarcely been a saint, but his own dissolute career had at least always been conducted with discretion. Even Crow, to Kitto’s knowledge, had never hit a fellow officer of the British army in a ballroom.
‘Have you any notion whatsoever, Helford, of the difficult and extremely sensitive nature of current relations between Britain and Russia?’ Lord Cathcart went on, consulting another of his papers with only the briefest upwards glance at Kitto.
‘We’re allied against Napoleon as the greater enemy, but the tsar doesn’t trust us and neither do his generals, and neither do the Russian people in general, sir,’ Kitto said. ‘And the tsar might change allegiance at any given moment, according to what suits him best. Am I to be reduced to the ranks, then, sir?’
Lord Cathcart, who had been studying a map unrolled on the desk-top before him, glanced up at Kitto once more. ‘Do you think me quite stupid? A young officer of your courage and ability? No. We must simply be rid of you for a period – your continued presence in town can only fuel such a scandal as this. What, in your estimation, do British forces most lack? And what do the Russian battalions themselves equally lack?’
‘Horses, sir,’ Kitto replied instantly.
‘Very well,’ Lord Cathcart replied. ‘I understand that the Semenovsky Guards sent several men and a small squadron of Cossacks to requisition new horseflesh in the interior: they were attacked and nearly all killed, leaving only a single newly conscripted young officer to oversee the horses, of which there are several hundred still remaining. You will apprehend the irresistible temptation to thieves and brigands. The officer is, as we speak, taking refuge on the country estate of Countess Orlova, awaiting an escort. You will be that escort, Helford. You will join Lieutenant Rumyantsev in escorting the horses back to Petersburg, although I do hear that the young fool had the temerity to protest by letter to his colonel that he would do better without any assistance at all.’ Lord Cathcart glanced down at the map again. ‘And I should hope that by the time you return in a blaze of glorious success this unseemly scandal will have quite dissipated, and that your completed mission will only cast a golden light on the helpful nature of Russo-British relations, united in defeating Napoleon, our common enemy. Am I quite understood?’ Cathcart didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I see no reason for any appreciable delay, Helford. Lieutenant Rumyantsev awaits your assistance, and Countess Orlova’s estate is quite some considerable distance from Petersburg. You’ll need to change horses as often as you can. All necessary documents for travel await you with Colonel MacArthur.’ He looked up once more. ‘And if you could try to conduct yourself without disgracing the nation or further endangering the diplomatic process, I would be most extraordinarily grateful.’
23
Two nights after young Captain Helford had been so summarily banished from Petersburg, Countess Tatyana Orlova stood at the head of the wide, emerald-carpeted staircase that led down into her Petersburg drawing-room, watching her guests thronging and darting in the vestibule below like fish at the lake’s edge. It had been less than a week since that exquisite refusal of a marriage proposal from her lover, and Tatyana felt a pleasurable wave of satisfaction at the prospect of teasing Prince Volkonsky with her continued and doubtless infuriating availability to other men: after Orlov, she would never again be bound in obedience.
Not even to you, Sasha Volkonsky, she thought, and sipped from the glass of champagne handed to her by one of the newer house serfs; she hadn’t yet learned his name, he had only recently been purchased from the Rostopchins. The champagne was naturally very good, but she knew full well that society didn’t come here only to drink it. They had all been waiting for her to fall, ever since the rumours about Petya began to spread, her dearest little soul. But she mustn’t think about Petya. Tatyana assessed the crowd: at half past ten, there was a throng, thank God.
She sensed Sasha’s presence before she saw him; a disturbance in the air, a heat. ‘Easily enough of a mob,’ he said, standing behind her. ‘You haven’t lost your touch – not yet, anyway.’
Tatyana turned to face him and he smiled, as if in dismissal of his departure at their last meeting: such heat-charged congress of fury and rigidly controlled good manners. ‘How acerbic you are tonight, Sasha,’ she said, teasing. ‘Have you a sore head? Too busy winning fortunes from little British soldiers again?’ What gave him the right to goad her? Standing so close to him entirely knocked the breath from her lungs and sent an unbearable spreading warmth between her legs. Sasha raised a finely arched and dismissive copper-brown brow, but Tatyana sensed the rapidity of his pulse: he had by no means forgiven her for refusing him. ‘Have you heard any news of the Kurakina girl since that dreadful attack on the Semenovskys with the horses? Were they not supposed to be escorting her to Petersburg? I hear from Dorothea Lieven that the British have a strong interest in the girl. As well they might.’
‘Dorothea ought to be more discreet.’
‘Oh come now – you know well that she and I tell each other everything, and so does the tsar. To his profit, on more than one occasion. It was a boy from your own regiment who was sent to retrieve her, after all. Does anyone know if the girl is even safe after all those horses were stolen? We can only hope the French didn’t get their hands on her as well.’
‘Alexander should never have let his damned generals talk him into combining the two missions,’ Sasha said, frowning; he was one of the few who called the tsar by his given name. ‘In fact, we’ve heard nothing of Nadezhda Kurakina since the detachment with the horses was attacked. Lieutenant Rumyantsev wrote to say he was the lone survivor, but made no mention of the girl at all, whether she was even retrieved from the Kurakin estate, which makes me wonder if the chit hasn’t either been killed or run away.’
Tatyana s
miled at him. ‘Are you telling me that your regiment has actually lost the most useful girl in Russia? A possible heir to the English throne, and no one knows where she is?’
Sasha merely cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘I’m telling you nothing, but the Rumyantsev boy is due to wait for assistance at Yarkaya Polyana, is he not? Why don’t you go home and ask him if you’re so thirsty for intrigue? I’m afraid I have other irons in the fire, Tanyushka.’ He turned to survey the swelling crowd. ‘The British are out in force tonight, I see.’
Tatyana followed his gaze, knowing him well enough to be sure he would divulge no further information. ‘It’s a shame about the Cathcart daughter,’ she remarked with a critical eye on the girl, flushed and cringing in yet another gown of pale pink that couldn’t possibly have set her off to worse advantage. ‘What a waste.’
‘You’re quite right: Jane Cathcart is entirely unremarkable.’ Sasha treated her to one of his more irritating smiles.
‘They must be hoping to get rid of her this year, all the same.’ He was up to something: Tatyana was quite sure of it. Unbidden, a memory rose up and she was standing, aged eight, with bare feet on the pebbled island where the deep green stream split at the western edge of the farmyard, weeping with rage as Sasha had laughed and shouted from the far bank: You said you were the better swimmer, now prove it. Why couldn’t she relinquish the certainty that he was about to take cruel enjoyment in punishing her for not accepting his proposal? The English ambassador’s wife and her daughter had stopped to talk to one of the Raevsky girls who looked as if she wished herself elsewhere, but Tatyana knew that as hostess she wouldn’t escape a tedious conversation about the advance of spring, or the latest Parisian fashion plates.